


electric feel

by Teroe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lifeguards, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Its basically all fluff, and clarke in a bikini making her life a little more difficult than it has to be, really all i wanted was lexa in a lifeguard uniform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9848687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/pseuds/Teroe
Summary: She’s a Summer girl. Or at least that’s the assumption you make on a hot friday afternoon.orthe lifeguard au





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally going to be posted for valentines but then things happened. but here it is finally, two times longer than anticipated. hope you enjoy!

She’s a summer girl. Or at least that’s the assumption you make on a hot friday afternoon. Her skin is flushed and sweaty from the sun, sand clinging to her butt and the back of her thighs, but her laughter is light amid the noise of the beach. She dusts the sand from her hands on the white t-shirt that hangs loosely over her bathing-suit as she clambers back to her feet and you try not to stare.

But behind your sunglasses it's easy to hide, each glance a non-existent slip, the whistle you had been twirling around your finger suddenly still, caught loosely in your fist. Her steps are clumsy in the loose sand, feet sinking, but her eyes focus on the volleyball being passed back and forth on the makeshift court with a determination that speaks all its own. It’s a fire you’d liken to the sun, a warmth that sinks in welcome and then burns and burns.

Hoots and hollers rise when the ball ricochets off her knuckles, lands with a muffled thunk against the surfboard propped against your chair, toppling it over into the sand. She has the decency to look guilty at least, a blush reddening her cheeks that has nothing to do with the sun and she tries to brush it off with a gesture thrown at her friends that is, you assume, meant to be obscene, but is censored at the last moment to be nothing besides the back of her fist.

She runs a hand through her hair, pulling the salted blonde curls from her face and over her shoulder as she makes the walk of shame to collect the wayward ball and right the surfboard back against the tall wooden chair you’re seated in.

You pull back the shades from your eyes, settling them on the top of your head as you lean your weight onto the left armrest in a nonchalant slouch to watch her.

“Sorry.” She locks eyes with you and in that brief moment you lose the ability to think. It’s just her face, her lips, her nose, her eyes--the way her t-shirt slips low over one shoulder, how the redness blooming there from hours spent unprotected in the sun endears you more than it should. “Won’t happen again.”

You quirk a brow and luckily for you it's taken as a reprimanded without a need for words. Not that you think a lesson has been learned. In fact, the way she smiles back at you makes you believe the opposite.

 

* * *

 

The wind is a welcome addition to the rays of the sun, cools the water that sticks to your skin as you trudge from the surf and back to your chair, surfboard tucked under your arm with only minutes to spare. But when you look up, she’s waiting for you.

You come to a stop a few feet away, locking the slouch from your shoulders and tilting your head back a smidge. You feel the ocean water drip down your back from the tips of your hair and you manage to stop the shiver that begins low in your spine before it ruins you. The display is just short of an intimidation tactic, your posture stoic and controlled despite the way your skin prickles with goosebumps.

She seems only slightly deterred. “Here,” she says, holding out a clear plastic cup of what you assume is a smoothie from one of the food stands down at the other end of the beach. “A peace offering.”

You set your board against your chair and peel the hair clinging to your face and neck over one shoulder and out of the way. It takes a second for you to decide and you reach out for the cup, taking it gently from her hands.

“Truce?”

You twirl the cup around, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “For now.”

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t happen again. But that doesn’t mean you don’t see her. Often. The crowds come in droves, pitch their proverbial tents in the sand and hunker down for the long summer haul where the days seem to stretch until there’s nothing left. But that’s what summers are for. The heat and the waves, the sand and the salt-water smell, blondes with blue eyes and the ability they have to make you forget your name.

So you try to forget her. Her and that blue two piece, how it matches the baby blue of her nails as she pulls her fingers through her hair, settles it atop her head in a bun that, in the end, doesn’t quite do it's job. A part of you wonders if she’s doing it on purpose.

Sometimes all she does is sunbathe, oblivious to the noise of the beach in its prime, the cries of kids and the calls as parents chase after them. She stretches out on her stomach, towel spread out underneath her and her head pillowed on her arms. Her t-shirt is tossed aside in favor of the sun on her back and thankfully, for her sake, there is sunscreen involved.

And other times, when riled from sleep by friends and pulled into the thick of things, she’s proud and unafraid, snatching things from beneath their noses and bolting. She’s not fast, you learn quickly, and you think maybe she wants to be caught.

Her laughter carries. Above the roar of the waves and the crash of the surf. You try to ignore it as you fix a potentially hazardous ding on the rail of your surfboard, seated in the shade cast by your chair (currently off the clock for your break, though prepared and ready for anything as always). It’s a simple and quick process, and one you’ve completed on numerous occasions. It means you’re done with time still left to spare.

You tug off your shirt, hair a mess when you manage to peel the stiff, sun dried fabric from your upper body. Running a hand through the disarray calms it a bit and you reach out for your board, tucking it under your arm before turning towards the surf.

You catch her staring out of the corner of your eye, oddly still among the others as they continue their roughhousing. It takes a second for her to notice you’re staring back, and in that comical moment of realization that follows you watch the embarrassment slowly wash over her face. She averts her eyes to her friends, but a smile spreads before she can stop it and she hides it behind her hand.

Not too long later she chances another look and it has the same result.

(you find it’s hard to forget about her)

 

* * *

 

Her name is Clarke. You hear someone call her name when you struggle from the pull of the shallows and onto the beach with a little boy in your arms. Far off and distant, it echoes as you hear her bark out an order for someone to call 911. Your steps feel heavy and sluggish, the thought that you could be faster, quicker, more efficient, better an ever present mantra in your mind.

It’s the adrenalin that drowns out your surroundings, focuses you. You take stock of things, on the stillness and lack of breath, but there’s a beat still alive under your fingers. You ask if he’s okay, loudly, bent over the small body and ever watchful, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling as the salt water drips from the crown of your head and into your eyes.

Everything has been drilled into you until it's second nature and you go through the steps as if it was what you were made to do.

The EMTs show up twenty minutes later, and your hand hasn’t left the little boy’s shoulder since you managed to resuscitate him. It’s partly to keep him from turning onto his back and potentially choking on his own vomit, keeping watch for the signs, but also because it makes you feel better. The boy is breathing and that’s what matters most.

He’s groggy and exhausted when they haul him up onto the stretcher, his parents crowding him, but he gives you this little gap toothed grin and you feel a little bit lighter.

 

* * *

 

The beach is near empty when another body sinks itself into the sand beside you and the presence warms you more than the setting sun ever could. You dig your toes into the cooling sand, stuff your hands deeper into the front pocket of your sweatshirt and slowly breathe in. It lingers in the back of your mouth for a moment and then escapes all at once.

The waves crest and crash.

“Isn’t it--” Clarke pauses, struggling to find the right words, and for some reason you have a feeling she understands. “Isn’t it tiring?”

“Of course.” You keep your eyes ahead. The sun slips a little bit lower. “That doesn’t make it not worth it.”

She hums softly beside you and you risk a glance. Her t-shirt is back on but her legs are bare, goosebumps evident on her thighs. She wraps her arms around them, rests her chin on her pulled up knees, and sighs. It’s how you imagine the waves greet the sand.

“When it rains it pours,” you say. “I guess the hope is that we feel refreshed after it’s all over.”

“Do you?”

You contemplate this, your brow pinching together in careful thought. The sea breeze bites at your cheeks and you try to blink away the sudden dryness in your eyes. “I feel alive?” you admit honestly to the open air. “Is that close enough?”

She doesn’t answer and she doesn’t look away. She watches you, eyes soft and hair scattered in frizzy little curls over her shoulders. The sun lights her skin warm in the cool evening air and when she shifts her shoulder bumps yours.

It’s surprising how content you feel.

“I’m Clarke,” she says after a moment. “I don’t think I ever properly said hi.”

You look at her, studying the tired lines to her face. “You didn’t.”

She smiles, embarrassed, scratching the tip of her nose, before holding out her hand. “Well, hi...”

“Lexa,” you say, pulling a hand from your pocket and grasping hers gently.

“Hi, Lexa.”

You can’t help but smile back.

 

* * *

 

On Fridays you teach a small group of kids how to surf at the far end of the beach where the waves are small. It’s quieter here, more space to stretch without the fear of running into someone else. It’s safer that way--in your secluded little area with a couple of old but trusty surfboards, a warm patch of sand, and the gentle rush of waves.

You’re lucky that they’re all generally well-behaved kids, perhaps a little too eager to be out on the waves when they’ve still got much to learn, but their enthusiasm will only help you in the long run. You thrive off it.

“Hands flat. Good. Now push up--keep that butt down, feet together--and pop up--” you watch, holding the board still on the sand, as the boy in front of you manages to pop up from his prone position on the board to his feet. He looks at you, frozen in the typical surfing stance, mouth slack in shock at his accomplishment, and you smile, pride swelling in your chest. “Very good, Aden!”

He grins, sandy blond hair stuck this way and that, and slowly eases the tenseness from his muscles. “One more time?” he asks eagerly, already knowing the answer.

You nod. “One more time.”

He gets back on his stomach, wiggling to get in the right spot with his hands flat on the deck of the surfboard. You hear him count down from three under his breath and this time, with the necessary confidence, his movements are smoother, more assured. He’s on his feet like a natural and you hold out your hand palm up after he relaxes and he gives you a low five.

Your little group disbands momentarily as they prepare to head into the water and you watch, sitting back on your heels as they velcro the safety strap to their ankles and follow the necessary procedures you’ve set into place to ready themselves. You’re confident in all of their abilities to pop up from the board without first going to their knees or stumbling, as they’ve all demonstrated in the warm-up today, and now the water looks more enticing to the lot of you than ever.

But when you finally haul yourself to your feet to follow, dusting the sand from your knees, you’re the one that stumbles. It’s just a little slip, a little drop in your composure when you spot Clarke making her way along the water’s edge towards you. She doesn’t acknowledge you, though, as if she’s just so happened to stumble upon the same side of the beach as you, her inconspicuous whistling the very opposite of innocent.

Pretenses are only abandoned when you don’t allow her the relief of looking away and she has nothing left to pretend to look at besides you. You cross your arms, hip cocked and unable to stop the grin stretching your lips.

She waves.

 

* * *

 

You work the late shift more often than not. You enjoy it as a matter of fact. The beach stays busy until four or so as families and friends soak up what sun they can until they’re nothing but burnt crisps left for the seagulls to pick at. They trickle out around five, packing their things into coolers, shaking blankets free of sand and taking one last walk down to the water to rinse off sandals and shoes.

It’s almost sad watching it unfold from your seat. People disappear one after another out of the corner of your eyes like their being plucked from your peripheral by the sea monsters you believed in as a child. And when six o’clock rolls around, you have everything organized and packed in the storage office ready for tomorrow.

But you don’t leave. Not right away. You make your way back to the beach, breathing in deep before stripping out of your sweatshirt and tossing it at the base of your chair. You tuck your surfboard under your arm and head towards the water, eager for the way the waves crash against your legs as you wade through the shallows. Once it becomes too cumbersome to walk you paddle out the rest of the way.

You catch a few waves before the tide pulls out and the water settles, and you stay out a little longer just because you can, sitting out a ways watching the shore for a change, the sun warm on your back. There’s only a few people remaining this late into the evening, couples taking advantage of the space and those who refuse to give up until the sun does.

“Hey.”

You startle just a little bit, looking down at Clarke, her cheshire grin hidden beneath the water. She pulls herself closer, surfacing completely to fold her arms over your surfboard and keep herself afloat with minimal effort. She’s breathing a little heavily and you glance at the shore, measuring the distance in your head. You look back at down at her, her hair wet and sticking to her forehead, little beads of water running from her temple and over the curve of her cheek.

(you think you could love her)

“Believe me, it wasn’t easy,” she mutters into her arms. “Thought I was going to drown there for a second.”

You watch her softly. “Please don’t. I’m off the clock.”

Clarke chuckles at that and you’re sure your insides melt. She takes a few moments to catch her breath, inhaling deeply, but seemingly content to drift with you on the waves.

“Clarke.”

She picks up her head, looks up at you, and the water drips from her chin. “Hmm?”

You don’t think about it. But then again, maybe you do. You stare at her lips and lose your train of thought, the small upturn of her nose. You move up to her eyes and suddenly breathing is difficult, and the only solution you find is to lean in and steal it back from her.

A part of you thinks she rises to meet you halfway, but you don’t have the necessary brainpower to linger on it. Her lips are soft and salt tinged, and it’s like the ocean on the tip of your tongue. It’s... awkward and there’s a strain in the muscles on the side of your neck as you twist to get a better taste but you don’t want to stop.

When she finally pulls away you find it impossible not to trail after her. It’s a feeling all too fleeting and you’re afraid of it disappearing for good, but both of you snap out of it the second you lose your concentration and the surfboard tilts precariously to the left. You right yourself, clearing your throat and Clarke hides her smile into her shoulder.

Your cheeks burn, the pressure of her mouth against yours still very much present, and before you can stop yourself, you brush the tips of your fingers over your mouth.

“Give me a lift back to shore?”

You glance at her, your hand faltering in its path along your bottom lip. She smiles wide and the sun seems to make her glow, but her cheeks are red, stretching to the tips of her ears. It’s comforting knowing you’re not the only one in over your head.

(maybe you already do)

 

* * *

 

You kiss her when you get back to shore and the sun is no longer watching--when it rests tiredly over the horizon and all the courage it has infused in you begins to seep from your fingers. So you cup her cheek in your palm and her eyes droop and centimeters have never felt so far. In the wake of night, the air is free of its humidity and in its place there’s a lightness that billows in from across the sea. It cools the fire in your skin, that warmth that has made itself a home under your spine, behind your eyes.

And yet her lips are both of those at once. That sudden burn and soothing cool, urgent and at the same time gentle. You want to drown in it. How every retreat sends your heart to your throat and you lean in to slant your mouth softly over hers, entreating. You could kiss her for years, confident in the way she holds you still against her, and it feels like you do. The waves crash, distant, and it keeps time the way you can’t.

In that little alcove by the showers, sunsets unfold like the tide, drawn out and slow while the night waits for the passage of day.

Time holds still for you.

 

* * *

 

You live in an off-campus apartment that is closer to the beach than it is to your university. It’s largely convenience rather than preference. Maybe. Work gives you the money to go to school after all and being able to share the burden of bills with a friend perhaps also swayed things a little bit. Utilities included meant it was a no brainer and the rest, they say, was history.

It’s small for two, but you’ve been around Anya since before you can remember. She knows you better than most, which means that it doesn’t surprise you when she notices, and it’s not like it wasn’t for lack of trying. What you have with Clarke is personal and scary and you’ve learned to keep things like that close to your chest, but even with her schedule and internships and piles of work she leaves around the apartment, Anya manages to read you almost as if she wrote you herself.

Which, in the end, at least relieves you from relaying the tale to her yourself. It’s easier when your tongue is forced, too busy to think, and things fall away without heeding. But what really happens is she takes one look at you and knows. You don’t even get a chance to close the door.

You stop in the foyer, watching her study you from where’s she’s situated herself on the couch. And it confuses you. You look down at yourself, still dressed in your lifeguard shorts and a sweatshirt, smelling of salt water and a bit of sunscreen, wondering what she sees as you place your drawstring backpack up on it’s hook by the door.

“Where are your shoes?”

You glance down again and sure enough. “Back at the beach,” you reply without pause, oddly not embarrassed. It’s not that you forgot, you were just a tad distracted.

“So you walked home barefoot? Just for the fun of it?”

Little bits of sand carried home from the beach trail after you into the kitchen, rubbing off your feet, and it’s hard to look dignified rummaging through the fridge still a mess from work. Well, you’d blame it on work.

“It wasn’t a long walk.” You shut the fridge, twisting open the cap to the water. You gather enough courage to look at her once you’ve taken a sip and the dryness to your throat lessens. “I’ll clean up the mess.”

“That's not what I’m getting at.” She sighs, looking back down at the papers she has spread out over the couch and coffee table. “It’s just unlike you to be forgetful.”

“Summer does that to me.”

She scoffs good naturedly, ruffling through loose-leafs. “Oh I’m sure it’s the weather alright.”

A smile comes to you slowly, just a little quirk of lips until you have no choice but to hide behind another sip of water. You screw the cap back on and then set the bottle on the counter. “I’m taking a shower.”

Anya hums like she isn’t paying attention, eyes focused on her work. When you’re halfway down the hall towards the bathroom, already half out of your sweatshirt, she calls out, “It’s going to be hot out tomorrow. Be careful, alright?”

You laugh quietly to yourself, but the comfort you feel settles warmly in your chest. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you call back, shutting the bathroom door behind you.

 

* * *

 

The second time you see her coming. You’re not out as far, but she’s still a little breathless when she swims up to you. She hooks an arm over your surfboard, steadies herself, and exhales noisily through her mouth. The water bubbles.

It takes a second or two for her to catch her breath and when she does, she throws her other arm over, a determined look settling on her face. “Help me up,” she says, struggling against the buoyancy of the surfboard as she attempts to pull herself up and over.

“Clarke--” the nose of the surfboard dips, the sides teetering. “Clarke, no--”

Your words cut off as the board capsizes, flips side over side and you tumble over, plunging into the water with an impressive splash. You surface sputtering, hair soaked and in your eyes, clinging to your face. You reach blindly for Clarke with your right hand, the other snagging hold of your surfboard before it has a chance to wander further out of your reach. Clarke’s hands find it with some guidance and with everything important safe and secure, you push the hair from your face.

Clarke grins guiltily back at you, looking every bit as drenched as you feel. Her blonde hair sticks to her temples and cheeks (her chest), and you try to look angry. You really do. But you’re stuck halfway between exasperation and adoration, this foolish endeared smile threatening to take over your face.

“Sorr--”

You splash her before she can finish and she gasps as she turns away from the spray. The look in her eyes when she turns back sends this chill down your spine and you don’t have time to prepare before she gathers a mouthful of saltwater and spits it in your face.

Laughter erupts, a mix of giggles and shrieks and half-hearted shoves. There’s nothing you want more than this.

 

* * *

 

It’s hot all week and it's the kind of heat that buries itself under your skin and boils, but you don’t let it show. You’ve dealt with worse, even if that doesn’t make it easier. The beach is packed, filled shoreline to shoreline with people and their blankets and booze and for better or worse it keeps you occupied.

When it gets like this, you’re not left with much time to think. There’s the teenagers roughhousing in the water, testing how deep they can go without being scolded, and a young brother and sister pair who sit at the water’s edge, digging holes in the sand and watching them fill with water as the waves come in. Surfers out at the break ride the waves in and you keep an eye on them as they attempt to steer clear of the swimmers drifting about in the surf.

Vigilance is an understatement. Time has taught you that moments of weakness are to be taken advantage of and it’s a sobering thought. Distractions are the root of mistakes, especially the pretty ones off in the corner of your eye. So you do your job and you do it well.

It’s days like these, though, when you stew in the heat up in your chair that the relief you feel when they’re gone is like all the air leaving your body. The weight in your body expels in one breath and you feel halfway blown away by the breeze, listless and a little bit lost. Sometimes it takes you awhile to stumble your way out of your chair, gathering your things and your thoughts for the walk home.

It’s cooler up here though, and when the sun sets and the wind picks up, the air fills your lungs. Breathing comes a little easier.

“How’s the view from up there?”

You brace your forearms on your legs, peering over the edge at Clarke below you. The sight of her tugs your lips into a small smile. “Would you like to see?”

Clarke nods and you reach down, offering your hand. You help her up and she settles herself in between your legs. Your lips find her shoulder and you press them there absently, smelling the salt and her citrus scented sunscreen. There’s hardly any sun left, just the remainder of light reflecting off the clouds, and in front of you, Clarke sighs.

“It’s beautiful.”

You hum absently, the exhaustion suddenly taking its toll and you slouch forward, resting your chin on her shoulder. Clarke handles the weight well and it relaxes you more than you thought it would. Your eyes grow heavy and you don’t think twice about shutting them for a moment. The sound of the waves rushing up the shore and that almost lull as they recede, the breeze as it carries across the beach--it cuts the last strand of your self control down to size and you’re only vaguely aware of nodding off.

It feels like mere seconds--a slow blink--but when you open your eyes, the world has gotten darker, calmer. You clear your throat, picking your head up from Clarke’s shoulder, and try to ignore that uncomfortable pinch at the back of your neck.

“Sorry,” you say, voice rough, trying to rub the aches away. “I lost track of time.”

Clarke watches you softly over her shoulder. “You looked like you needed it.”

You don’t deny it. Instead you help Clarke from your chair, jumping down shortly after her, the sand cool under your feet. You pick up your equipment from beside your chair, placing your bag over your shoulder, the red rescue can tucked under your left arm, and your surfboard under your right.

Clarke is checking her watch when you turn back to her. It dawns on you then. “I kept you,” you say and she startles, dropping her arm and folding it behind her back.

“I had a nice view.” She smiles -- shrugs and looks away. It doesn’t hide anything and she knows it. “Might have missed the last bus though.”

You readjust the surfboard under your arm, finding a better grip to accommodate the sudden clamminess to your palms. You try not to think too much about it. “You can come back with me.”

There’s nothing but the roll of the waves for a moment, Clarke still besides the breeze that pulls at her loose overshirt. “I don’t want to cause you trouble.”

“You won’t.” She couldn’t. You gesture towards the lifeguard quarters with a tilt of your head. “Just let me drop this off?”

After a moment Clarke nods. “Sure. Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll, uh, meet you by the entrance?”

Your heart thuds heavily, your throat suddenly dry. “Sounds good,” you manage, forcing yourself not to stare. Your eyes flit from the office to her and then back again, and the smile you feel overtake your face is impossible to stop. “I’ll be right back.”

You dart off after one last glance at her, at that small smirk on her mouth, and it’s the only thing on your mind when you stumble through the office door and begin to put things away. You lean your surfboard against the wall near your locker, put away the rescue device in the closet with the others, grab your sandals, and then lock up. You throw a sweatshirt from your bag over your bathing suit out on the deck, and then rush off towards the entrance, the thwack of your flip-flops muffled in the sand.

She’s standing by the road, a hand carding through her hair, and you slow down to a stop as you exit the gate, breathing hard. Seeing her doesn’t make it any easier. In that not quite darkness that summer brings, she glows--her white shirt and blonde hair vibrant against the wash of shops across the street, lamp posts too spaced apart to make an impact.

Even here you can still hear the waves, far off and distant, and it makes you calm. You quickly comb your fingers through your hair, taming the mess as best you can before walking up and clearing your throat.

Clarke drops her hand, hair falling over her shoulders, and her lips curl into this tiny smile. God, it nearly kills you, but you’ve never felt more alive. “This way.”

She falls into step next to you, her shoulder bumping yours despite having the entire sidewalk to yourselves. You cross the street to cut through that side-road near the pizza place and you hear the din of clattering kitchenware as the two of you scoot by the back door and Clarke slips her hand into yours.

Streets are empty besides the stragglers. You weave your way easily through back roads and before you know it you’re walking up onto the porch of your apartment. The front door opens with a squeak and you and Clarke squeeze yourselves into the small foyer. You rummage through the letterbox labeled with your last name, picking out the fliers and envelopes and stuffing them in the front pocket of your sweatshirt, and then begin the trek up the flights of stairs with Clarke in tow.

Yours is the only door on the top floor and you open it cautiously, but thankfully the only thing that greets you is Anya’s light snore as she dozes on the couch. The pale light of late evening creeps in through the blinds and a breeze filters unfettered through the open windows, swirling about the room as the ceiling fan putters overhead, and you slip out of your sandals and nudge them into their place by the others.

Anya’s papers are scattered everywhere, and you pick up the random documents on your way to the table, digging out the mail from your pocket and placing everything on the table for tomorrow morning.

Your room is just down the hall and the silence that follows once the door closes behind you seems fragile--delicate--as if you're two steps away from a dream. Maybe it’s the night and the shadows that shift across your floor, the occasional rumble of a car on the street below, the lights that pass by on your wall--

“Psychology?” comes Clarke’s voice and you find her by the little end table near your bed, brushing her fingers over the cover of your textbooks.

“Child services,” you reply, quiet.

She looks up, the dull light soft on her skin. “The lifeguard thing not working out for you?”

“It’s a means to an end.”

She smiles. “Sure it is.”

Your lips quirk and you look away, shrugging the bag off your shoulder and placing it on your desk chair. It’s not long before you’re sneaking glances, watching her move through your room. She takes things in silently, observant and curious, and it feels like stripping away your skin. You’re not quite sure what to do.

“Is there anything I can do...” you pause, swallowing the courage back down into your stomach. “for you?”

Clarke shakes her head absently, taking a seat on your bed. It creaks a little in the way it’s known to do, and the sight of her in that loose overshirt, that tired slouch to her posture, the soft light -- it drains the tenseness from you.

All you want to do is fall asleep with her.

“Are you sure?”

“ _Lexa_ ,” she says and the fondness in her voice outweighs the exasperation.

Your shoulders relax, and you should probably change. Take a shower and wash the day away before you succumb to the comforts of your bed, but you don’t account for the pull that draws you closer, how Clarke’s voice hangs in the quiet air, that itch of want and need in the tips of your fingers. You take those first few tentative steps into her space and Clarke reaches out for you. You feel the gentle pressure of her fingers on the back of your thighs and you let yourself be pulled.

“I’m fine,” she says. “More than fine.” She gives another tug. “You, on the other hand, need to relax.”

You hum, noncommittal and unconvinced, looking down at the smile on Clarke’s face. There’s nothing stopping you from kissing her so you do, dipping to capture her lips and it’s this slow unhurried thing that seems to melt and pull apart. It leaves you dazed, heavy eyed, and a little out of breath.

“Mmm, nice try.” The words tickle your lips and you push forward again, tasting the last of her smile before it melds into your own. It doesn’t last but it’s worth it, and you don’t put up a fight when she pulls you down onto the bed.

You huff into her neck, indignant but too comfortable to move, and you drift through the last waves of consciousness before the tide of sleep pulls you under.

 

* * *

 

The first rays of sun creep in early, yawning across your wood floors and exhaling what will no doubt be another humid day. You feel it sink deep into your muscles, the way you rouse sluggishly, sheets kicked and tangled around your feet. It’s the annoyed groan in the back of Clarke’s throat at the disturbance in the bed, still on the edge of sleep, and you roll yourself onto your side and closer to her.

Her hair’s a mess, strewn across your pillow, and you curl your arm around her waist, fingers trailing over the skin where her shirt is bunched up, pulling her back against you. She gives a half-hearted roll of her shoulders as if to shrug out of the hold, the heat already building between the contact of your skin, but she settles a second later with a resigned grumble.

You place a lazy kiss at the back of her neck and then get stuck there, your lips content with the touch despite the warmth.

“It’s too hot,” comes Clarke’s voice, mumbled and sleepy.

You kiss her again. “Mmm.” The silence swells and you think maybe Clarke has fallen back asleep, but her breathing comes uneven as she yawns. Your thumb brushes over her stomach. “Would you like breakfast?”

It takes a second or two and you wait, feeling her slowly awake under your palm. “Do you have work?”

“Not until later.”

She finally shifts, turning over to face you, and you place a soft kiss along the line of her jaw.

“Then yes, please.”

 

* * *

 

“C’mon,” she says, your sweatshirt drawstrings wrapped around her fingers. You stumble after her, hands reaching for her hips. “Rescue me.”

The whistle hung around your neck thumps against your chest, the sand shifting below your feet, and you try to remain afloat. She tugs again, grinning, but she releases. Her hands slide down to your waist, thumbs tucked into the hem of your red boy-shorts. “ _Clarke._ ”

Clarke’s skin reads like braille, the loose t-shirt she wears over her two-piece rippling in the ocean breeze, but she doesn’t seem to mind and neither do you. The sun hangs low, the tide pulled out, and the wind is a ghost around your bare legs.

You let her pull you in close and her hands link together behind your back. When you lean in Clarke’s nose is cold against yours, her lips close enough to touch, and the subtle breath she inhales is loud against the roar of the waves.

“You don’t need my help,” you say.

She exhales and you breathe in stars. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like it.”


End file.
